Venom Thrice Daily
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: What's a consulting detective to do when his Boswell goes missing for three days? FIND HIM of course! But what evil company has the poor Doctor fallen into this time?


**Originally posted On Livejournal community Watson's Woes. Posted here at Pompey's request. Anything for you m'dear. :D**

**Rating: K+, NON-SLASH (and if you take it that way, I'd rather not hear about it, nothing personal).**  
**Characters: Holmes, Watson, nameless villains, nameless cabbie.**  
**Word Count: 4,559 words**  
**Warnings: Gun-wielding Holmes, a great deal of unconsciousness, injections and drug abuse.**  
**Summary: "You've been missing for three days, old fellow. It's taken me this long to find you..." Uh oh...what horrible things could have happened to poor Watson in just three days?! Mwahahahaaaa!**  
**Author's Notes: The first of my fic fufillments, I apologize for me' tardiness. This is done at the request of Poeticmaiden, who wanted some good old fashioned angst and temporary seperation of our poor lads. I've done my best to put them in imminent peril. A happy ending was requisite. I hope this suffices.**

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My first thought was Afghanistan…which is understandable. When one has an experience as profoundly shaking as war…it tends to haunt that person's dreams for the rest of their life. And I especially have always been susceptible to odorous memories, a whiff of baking bread, the smell of a certain damp soil, the musty damp books of an old library…all of these and more trigger recollections in my mind.

So when I woke to a thick cloying scent in the air, one of sweaty, unwashed bodies, of sickly sweet opium smoke, of blood and vomit and most of all heat…it is not one of Holmes' great mysteries that I should at once think of Afghanistan.

But even as I thought it, I knew that was not quite right…Afghanistan had been years ago, before Holmes, before London…and I could smell traces of London in the air as well.

And besides…it was my shoulder and heel that had been damaged before…not my arm...

I croaked hoarsely in the thick, musky darkness, lest someone should be nearby to help. No one answered…I was not really surprised…

Well…it would be up to me then. First thing was first, as Holmes would say, find out _where_ you are dear chap.

Opening my eyes did little to help my situation, it really _was_ dark, lamps burned in the distance, but they were shrouded by thick yellow smoke that made everything around me into nightmarish shadows. I was lying on my back, on something hard and lumpy that stank to high heaven…probably rags that had housed a million wretched addicts before me. I was quite certain it was an opium house.

My certainty flickered, surely _I_ had not been partaking of opium? I had seen enough lives ruined by the horrid drug to know how foolish it was…surely I had not come here willingly?

In my agitation I breathed some of the smoke in more deeply and began to choke and cough. The walls of my chest felt heavy and thick, almost restrictive, like they were bound with tight canvas…but I did not have broken ribs did I?

I felt with my good hand, but found only my shirt, untucked and slick with sweat and filth, my collar and cravat were gone as well, had I been picked clean by enterprising pickpockets?

I groaned at the thought, but it was hardly the height of my worries, I now had a list of symptoms and they were not at all encouraging…my left arm was on fire, my chest walls were constricted making it hard to breathe, and a general feeling of lethargy and unwellness spread through my body.

I would have to help myself out of this wretched hell hole, and soon, whatever my condition was, it could only worsen in the poisonous atmosphere.

Now or never.

I tried to sit up, only to have my head raise feebly from the mattress, the muscles in my neck shrieked with the effort and I fell back again with a gasp of pain that nearly had me coughing again. it triggered a similar reaction throughout the rest of my body…I wasn't just feeble, or unwell…I was in pain. My limbs trembled as my as shivers of needles seemed to puncture my skin from head to toe.

My stomach also joined in, and did an excellent impression of a sailing ship, tossing and leaping so that waves of nausea hit me like blows. Great heaven…what was wrong with me!?

The pain only compounded my need to get out, I couldn't lie feebly on the rat's nest of rags any longer, breathing in the cloying sweet smoke…I had to get out of there.

I managed to get my good arm under me and with an effort flopped to the edge of the narrow bunk on which I lay. Again I gasped for breath and endured waves of needles, again I gathered myself and moved, and this time I felt myself suspended above empty space for an instant before I fell hard onto the filthy floor.

My landing disturbed a number of small vermin, for there was some scuttling and something ran over my hand. I gasped in shock and loathing and my stomach leaped again at the thought, I managed to turn onto my stomach before it finally pitched too far and I was sick.

To my horror, nothing came up, only a little amount of gastric bile, no food and no real liquids…how long had it been since I'd eaten, or even had a drink of water?

Every second brought home the urgency of my situation, I had to get out of here. Now shaking I threw my arm out and crawled forward, out from between the rows of bunks, into a narrow hall that ran alongside them. The smoke was thicker here, though the filth was less…I left behind piles of refuse and rags and emerged onto cheap floor-boards, worn smooth by years of passing feet.

I could see nothing but the next few rows of bunks, no way of knowing where the exit lay. I did not have the strength to make a mistake, already my body was trembling and sweating from the effort, splinters traced agonizing paths through my muscles and skin.

And of course, there was always the danger of being found out…I admit I had discounted it until that moment. A man who might be willing to help me could just as easily slit my throat in a filthy den like this. I was too enfeebled to realize it…until someone crawled from the between a few of the bunks further on.

He looked at me for a few moments, a small wiry man who would no doubt make it his profession to live off poor addled wretches who came to these places, their pockets full of loose change that would mean a month of hot meals for him.

Profession or no, the coolness with which he approached me was inhuman, I tried to move away, and only managed to fall flat, his bare feet padded smoothly toward me, I saw light glint off ruined teeth…and something far more reflective.

My revolver…my hand went automatically to where my coat pocket should be…but it was not there. I croaked in feeble protest as he came closer.

Heavy footfalls interrupted him, feet shod in workman's boots, my attacker turned like a cornered rat as another individual came swiftly down the passage, slouching, dark in a rough coat, his face thoroughly scarred.

Like a terrier on vermin he had hold of the little man in an instant and as I watched wrapped an arm around his neck and held him until they both sank to the ground and the smaller man's face grew dark…and then he stopped moving.

The new man cast him aside, and turned his face toward me, and I began to shake as I realized I had only been spared one death for another.

I rolled onto my back somehow, and shuffled my feet to slide away, addressing him in English, for I was certain he must at least be British.

"Stay awa-" I didn't have the voice for even that much, my fantastically dry throat gave out and I ended up coughing again, choking for breath, why was it so hard?!

The figure hardly halted his step, in fact he seemed to speed up, reaching me in a few quick strides. There were more sounds behind him, more feet, more voices, more men. this was not good. I suddenly wished I had remained hidden, my instinct was to scuttle away and hide like some beetle.

I tried, but the fellow was too swift for me, he had one hand in my collar and another around my waist, he dragged me back between the bunks, arms tight as though he had no intention of letting me go.

I tried to call out, anything was better than being knifed in the dark or worse, and then left forgotten in this particular corner of London.

The moment my cracked lips parted, a hand clamped down over my mouth, fingers under my jaw as well to keep it closed. My cry was strangled before it ever left me. I tossed my head instead, trying to break free, but it was pulled tight against the rough coat. My struggling amounted to nothing more than the fluttering of a dried leaf against knotted tree branches. His arm pinned mine to my sides and my legs were too unresponsive to be of any use at all. I shivered in his grip, my body wracked with the slivers of pain from earlier, worse now because of all the movement. My heart was beating a rapid tattoo against my ribs, and I pulled air harshly in through my nose. I was quite helpless and could only wait in terror for him to move.

To my bewilderment…he didn't…

Quite the opposite actually…he held me immobilized and then held still himself, breathing quietly.

Footsteps broke the silence, making me jump, and the arms around me tightened, keeping me still. Two or three voices broke the silence, speaking in an eastern dialect I was unfamiliar with. They went to the very bunk where I had been and finding it empty their voices rose in anger.

I was shaking worse with each passing moment as I suddenly realized that it was likely I had been drugged…that would partially explain my symptoms…I had awoken from my stupor and escaped before they could return for the next dose.

Only to be captured by whatever villain now held me of course…but it was still a narrow escape.

Someone rushed past us, and I jumped again, bumping my inflamed arm and moaning pitifully against the hand that smothered me.

That tightened too and a soft voice hissed in my ear.

"Shhh…"

I had no choice really, the silence stretched during which my captors rushed away, no doubt to find out where I'd escaped too. When they'd gone the silence slowly eased back into its place.

Another wave of needles ran over me, sharper this time, and I groaned, struggling anew against the tight arms. Their owner did not relinquish his grip.

But he whispered in my ear again. "Don't fight me old boy."

My skin crawled, literally and figuratively, I struggled harder, choking for breath against his hand.

"Here now…hold still…it's all right."

I was not reassured in the least, I was sick, and quickly losing my rationality, I wanted out of the dark, closed space.

"Stay still, Watson, stay still!"

I paused as the words finally penetrated…Watson…did I know him?

Encouraged by my stillness he went on. "It's all right, Watson, I won't hurt you, stay still. I know you're poorly old fellow, just hold on."

A few times in my life I have felt absolutely profound relief…and no less than three of those were caused by the sudden presence of my friend Sherlock Holmes.

I realized that I did recognize his voice, even rough as it was…I stopped struggling, let my spinning head fall back against his shoulder, and he released my mouth at once.

"Holmes…" my throat was as hoarse as stripped wood, my own voice hardly recognizable. I flinched.

"Shhh," his manner was warmer with relief, he fumbled in his jacket for a moment and removed a flask. I drank from it eagerly as he held the cool rim to my lips. "I'm not sure whether it is safe yet old fellow, we must linger a moment longer."

I nodded, groaning as the movement caused more pain. His arm tightened round my chest in concern.

"Are you badly hurt, Watson? You're shaking…"

I shook my head…I could feel no bruises or real aches, save from my arm. I raised it a little. "Drugged…I think…"

He probed the arm gently, stopping when I bit down on a gasp of pain.

I could tell by his sudden reticence that he was alarmed. "What are your symptoms, Watson?"

I told him and he swore softly, hand squeezing my shoulder in reassurance. "We must get you away from here, quickly, I hate to think what might have happened if I was a little later, or if you hadn't moved. I might never have found you."

"How are we to leave this stinking place?"

"As swiftly as possible. No one here has recognized me, and to be frank old fellow you blend in rather nicely yourself."

I shivered, it would feel wonderful to be clean again. "Do you propose we just _walk_ out?"

"Precisely, don't say anything, if we are questioned hang your head and let me do the talking…I think we're in the clear, take my cap and my coat and we're on our way."

The clothing not only covered my useless sweat-soaked attire, but helped to add to my disreputable appearance. Holmes fastened the coat and slung my good arm around his shoulder.

"I'm sorry old fellow, I must ask you to try and walk, we don't want to arouse suspicion."

"I don't think I can." I said honestly, my legs were quite useless, and my vision reeled wildly as he propped me up.

"Look drunken then…come on old man."

With his persuasion, and putting my full weight on him, I was able to make my feet. Once there I was only able to cling to shoulder and close my eyes against the vertigo.

"Steady," he said, and led me step by step out of the bunks and down the passage, more dragging me than anything, though I tried to move my feet. I closed my eyes against the stinging smoke and the rows upon rows of poor moaning and sighing shadows. Only when we emerged into a larger passage and cleaner air did I feel somewhat revived and was able to step stronger.

"Almost there." my friend breathed, his arm strong and reassuring beneath my own, his steps sure despite his burden.

I began to feel some confidence…and then there was an explosion of harsh, rapid voices behind us.

Holmes swore, and without a word pulled on my good arm and hoisted me into an awkward carry over his shoulder, his other arm behind my legs.

In this painful position I was carried swiftly through the remainder of the opium house, out into the beautifully clear air that hit me like a smack in the face. Speed was everything I understood, and so tried my best to stay where I was, though from my position I could see the pursuit not more than a dozen yards behind us.

Amazingly my friend kept up the pace for several winding streets but inevitably wavered and fell against a brick wall gasping for breath, shoulders heaving, which only added to my discomfort. I could not be helping him.

"Let me down." I gasped, short of breath myself.

He complied, easing me back to earth where my legs folded under me. He settled me to a sitting position instead.

"I have a cab, Watson. stay here a moment." and he pelted around a corner into the darkness.

I hugged the rough coat about me and coughed in the clear air, bracing myself against the now constant tingling that the jarring had caused. Something was wrong, I tried to list my symptoms in my head; lethargy, weak muscles, dizziness, nausea, partial numbness. It was not promising.

I looked up to where Holmes had disappeared, surely he should be back by now, I could still hear raised voices behind us.

No sooner had I thought this, then the sound of shod hooves rang on the cobbles. Holmes sprinted back leading a rather harried looking cabbie. He stopped, bent almost double, and smiled down at me. Looking wolfish under his scars.

"Up you get old fellow…no worse I trust?"

His arms were about me and he was leading me to the cab, settling me against the seat before climbing in himself.

Several figures appeared, pointing and shouting. Holmes signaled the driver, pulled a gun from his pocket and fired into the air.

It stalled them long enough, and soon the terrified horse was devouring the ground, pulling us behind it.

At the motion of the cab the pain flared again, stabbing into my stomach, and I could keep my groans back no longer. Holmes heard and pulled me closer, one hand pressed to my brow.

"Do you remember anything of the past three days, Watson?"

I was too weary to start, but I was alarmed all the same. "Th-three days?!"

"You've been missing for three days, old fellow. It's taken me this long to find you, I am sorry. But I need to know what you remember, your condition may depend upon it."

I closed my eyes, against the dizziness and the nausea, but also to recall…I remembered very little…only the cloying smoke…and the pain in my arm.

I shifted the limb in question, biting back a moan and indicated it limply with my head. "Th-this…they injected…"

Again he probed it, more gently this time. "It is swollen and inflamed." I could not tell either way…to me it was just one mass of hurt.

"You are in some pain?" I nodded.

"Does it originate from your arm?" I considered…the needles did seem to begin from my left side. I told him so and he hissed between his teeth.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"You _were_ drugged, you were also secured, there are rope marks on your wrists though it alarms me you obviously cannot feel them. I am convinced that it is not any ordinary opiate you've been given."

It was growing harder to concentrate, but accustomed was I to being his sounding board that I continued.

"What then?"

"They've mixed the substance with snake venom," he declared coldly, "I am certain of it, the practice is not unknown. Small amounts, daily…just enough to wear you down and still be masked by the drugs…and there is one particular snake that is common in this use."

Venom? I'd been poisoned?

It fit all the symptoms…

"What…" my mind was spinning now, and it was still hard to breathe, even in the clean air. "What are we to do…will I…"

"I don't think it's a fatal amount, it could have been. Luckily I have made a study in all poisons, including venoms, Watson. The effects of the Indian Cobra can be considerably lessened by a spice known as zedoary…It will not be difficult to acquire some."

_That _did alarm me, and I stiffened in surprise as I fully understood his words. I was trembling all over now, as though my body was terrified of its own accord at Holmes' words. "_Indian what?!"_

He pulled me closer, brushed the sweat-soaked hair from my forehead. "Steady on! You'll be all right old fellow, I promise. I know what to do."

Of that I had no doubt, Holmes played with poisons on a regular basis. We'd lost several teapots to his endeavors.

But would even his expertise be enough?

Again the cab jostled, and I pressed my useless, shivery body against my friend's steady arm, fighting down nausea and the increasing lethargy. It was important I stay awake now, my own medical instincts screamed at me to stay awake…the victims of such snakes often died from falling into a coma and asphyxiating.

"Watson," Holmes' voice grew stern, as though he could hear my thoughts…perhaps he could…had I been speaking out loud. "You are overreacting old fellow. If the dose was serious you would be in considerably more difficulty, just calm down."

My reason knew he was right, and that he should know…but if it was so mild why did I feel so disoriented? Why could I not listen to him? I realized belatedly that I was actually beginning to panic, like some of the poor sods in Afghanistan who'd run from the battle line and been shot in the back.

I shook my head agitation against his hand; it was still slick with sweat, I was still horribly hot even after leaving that place…where had we been anyhow?

"Where were we?" I croaked, eager for a question to concentrate on.

"It is called the Red Lotus, a nefarious establishment. I checked three others for you before that one."

Ah yes…we'd been investigating, something about the disappearance of a young nobleman, an addict…

"Did…did we find him?"

I was answered only with the sound of the horse and the cab wheels…then Holmes voice soft and regretful. "I found him ten minutes before you, Watson…and now that I think on it, it is likely they killed him in the same manner."

I shuddered, and the brief spell of distraction was broken by a new wave of needles that ran up my already wracked frame.

It was growing worse…I was certain of it, despite Holmes' reassurances, or maybe there were complications. Opening my eyes to track our progress I saw that my vision was quite blurry, I tried to take a few steadying breath against the nausea, felt my chest was tight again, and my exhalation trailed off to a whimper.

"Holmes…"

"Calm down, Watson."

"I-I don't want--"

"None of that now!" his grip tightened and I was practically in his arms, unable to protest even if I wanted too. "You will be fine…Watson, do you understand? I will see you through this. Don't worry." And it was then, hearing the subtle tension in his voice that I had missed before, that I realized Holmes was talking more to himself than to me…and that he was just as frightened. Embarrassingly my eyes began to water from the irritation, my stomach pitched again and I had to fight down bile. Holmes could not be afraid…that meant my own fears were more than justified.

If Holmes feared it, then surely it could not be beaten.

But then…he wasn't the one giving up.

"We're almost there, Watson. You must hold on…tell me of your symptoms, describe them."

"I…numb…my legs are numb…everything is harder…breathing, thinking…oh heaven--"

"You are not in too much pain?" I shook my head. it was certainly growing, stabbing into my stomach, but it was not too bad.

"You are very hot," he observed. "You have thoroughly soaked the coat…what does that indicate to you, Doctor?" I almost smiled at the deliberate use of my title, then sobered as I considered his question.

"Fever?"

"Quite so…I think it likely the puncture on your arm is infected, your surroundings were less than sanitary. Further I'd wager much of your disorientation is due to the fever and not the venom. It will not be the end of you, Watson. It is the deadly combination of both we must consider."

"Very encouraging," I whimpered and could find no reason for complaint when at that moment the cab slowed and our driver called to us.

Holmes spurred himself into action again. "Have you any strength left in your arms old boy?"

"Some." He pulled both my good arm around his shoulder and slid his own under my knees and armpits.

"Then hold on as best you can, it is important we minimize any movement."

Anyone who has been inordinately sick, or injured, will tell you that it is movement they despise most about the process. This time was no exception. My friend was inordinately gentle in his handling of me, but by the time he'd brushed aside Mrs. Hudson and laid me on the settee in the familiar sitting room I was doing my best to curl into a fetal position, holding my agonized arm against my chest, my head spinning violently with dizziness and nausea.

He laid a cool hand on my forehead, brushing off the cap and my hair back as I gasped and wretched, unable even to look at him. "Mrs. Hudson! Clean cloths, and a basin of water please! And I must send for something urgently!"

I decided that I did not care anymore whether I did fall into a coma…I let the stupor advance and carry me along its confusing, fever induced corridors.

Holmes _did_ know what he was doing. I was not allowed to remain unconscious for long. I was jarred awake quite abruptly by the sensation of liquid agony in my arm. I cried out and fought until I recognized the fumes of carbolic, and the gentle voice of Holmes telling me to be still. This was followed by several injections into my good arm, of heaven only knew what, and finally a glass being held to my lips. I opened my mouth eagerly enough…but when the poorly thinned mixture inside, tasting vaguely of extremely bitter ginger, made its way down my throat I gagged and nearly wretched it back up.

"Come now, Watson." Holmes teased, trying to tip more down my throat. "You've been to India, surely you've tasted it." when I did not comply he pinched my nose…but it was more out of anxiety than lack of air that I finally obeyed him…anxiety that I could not properly raise my arms to fight him off.

I finished the horrible concoction, shivering endlessly now, terribly heated, and aware of a growing pain in my stomach. The weight of another blanket was tucked around me and a hand squoze my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, old fellow…go back to sleep."

I readily obeyed.

It must have been some little time later when I was shocked back into awareness by a sudden flood of cool water. More tepid than anything else, it nevertheless washed over me with surprising abruptness. I gasped and opened my eyes to find myself immersed, clothes and all, up to my neck in the copper tub of our washroom.

Holmes smiled down at me, down to his shirtsleeves, and those rolled up to his elbows. "Forgive me, Watson. You were fading, and also quite filthy, this seemed the easiest course to take."

I shuddered, looked to my arm which was carefully kept out of the water, and found it neatly bandaged.

Reassured of my surroundings I observed Holmes himself. Aside from his shirtsleeves he was also unshaven, his hair disordered, and his eyes shadowed like he'd been on an all night investigation….but he was smiling with warm, genuine relief…vaguely euphoric.

I returned his smile, and it seemed the feeling was infectious. The water was wonderful against muscles that felt more like knotted rope than anything else and it drove away the last of the heat that plagued me.

"Is it over?" I asked, noting the absence of nausea, numbness and a growing hunger.

"Soon enough," Holmes smiled, patting my damp hair. I batted irritably at his hand, and was pleased to find I could do so, though I moved with all the energy of a kitten.

A _half-drowned_ kitten, that was.

"Your arm will be sore for quite some time…and you will have to take it very slowly over the next few days…but you will be fine, my dear Watson. Will you be alright here while I see about a meal?"

"Only if you eat some of it as well," I groused.

He snorted, but smiled and rose to leave. I relaxed gratefully, until I heard him call back. "And don't let me catch you in any more opium houses; it's a horrible vice, Watson."

His yowl of surprise was very satisfying…I have always been a rather good shot with water.


End file.
